


Personifications

by AmberDiceless



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Violence (Mild)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 15:18:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19444120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmberDiceless/pseuds/AmberDiceless
Summary: Crowley sees first-hand the consequences of the Original Sin. Originally written as a gift for sunrise_future at the anti_christmas LiveJournal community....They're not mine, obviously.





	Personifications

When the woman gave of the fruit of the Tree to her man, and he ate, little seemed changed outwardly except for the light of comprehension dawning in their eyes. But the demon Crawly immediately sensed a great shift in the cosmological underpinnings of this new Earth, and wondered uneasily if perhaps he had carried out his orders a bit too well.

Later, after the Lord's judgment and the exile from the Garden, he slithered up to investigate what was happening with the humans, and was surprised to find another creature watching them as well--a being shaped like the Woman, but with startling red hair, which was utterly unheard-of as yet, and a feverishly eager gleam in her bright orange eyes which Crawly did not like at all.

The Man didn't seem to see her, but when he caught sight of Crawly, his face went all ugly and his hands curled into tight fists. The red-haired creature winked saucily at Crawly and sidled up to the man, whispering intimately in his ear.

The man cast around on the ground until he found a large, sturdy stick with a heavy knot near one end, and strode toward Crawly with a determined air. The serpent had never seen a stick held that particular way before; it reminded him just a little too much of the flaming sword that silly angel at the Eastern Gate had "misplaced." Surely it couldn't pose a real threat, though. It was just a stick, and the humans knew nothing of violence.

Some time later, when he had recovered from the shock of his first discorporation and filled out the necessary paperwork (in triplicate,) Crawly sat in a waiting room down Below, cooling his heels (metaphorically speaking) while the boys from R&D made the final adjustments to his new body, and wondering what other unpleasant surprises would be waiting when he made it back to Earth.

\---

The red-haired woman kept hanging around, to Crawly's annoyance, and a few months later she had taught the Man all sorts of nasty tricks involving heavy rocks, bits of chipped flint and pointed sticks. (Apparently, he was no better at keeping track of flaming swords than Aziraphale.) It was getting more and more dangerous to come within tempting distance of the little human family, which now included a baby. Crawly would have liked a better look at the little guy, but the Man guarded him and the Woman ferociously. Which was probably all to the good, he supposed. There were plenty of ordinary animals around who had already forgotten their days of harmony with mankind and would make short work of them otherwise. The man had become quite successful at driving them off using his sharp new tools or burning brands from his fire.

The day the Man invented hunting, however, it wasn't the strange woman who stood by his side, but a rail-thin person with black hair who watched impassively as the Man heaved his sturdy new spear at an unsuspecting goat and brought it down, legs kicking wildly as blood spewed from its side and mouth.

Crawly cringed as the Man clumsily cut pieces of flesh from the animal and carried them back to the Woman, who looked horrified, but was too hungry and too frantic at her dwindling milk supply not to accept them and try to choke down the strange, unpleasant new food.

The thin man nodded to himself as though he had just learned something important. Crawly suppressed a sudden urge to creep up and strike at his heels, certain somehow that the hot, dry weather that had been killing all the plant life in the area for the past several weeks was his doing.

\---

"What's the matter with him?" Crawly asked in a subdued voice, coiled at a safe distance from the Man and his spear. The Woman was bent over her younger son, who was about three years old, making quiet comforting sounds as he whimpered and fussed, refusing to be soothed. He didn't seem to be hurt, but clearly something wasn't right.

"He is ill," said the angel shortly. "Or so Raphael told me."

Crawly uncoiled and slithered a bit closer to the angel, who still seemed unsure of his suitability as a conversational partner but occasionally seemed willing to talk to him out of sheer loneliness. "What does that mean?" he asked, hating to admit that he didn't know.

"A sickness has attacked his body," Aziraphale explained, sounding uncertain. "Tiny creatures, apparently, too small to be seen even by us. They crawl around inside him, nourishing themselves on his fluids and generating wastes that damage his flesh, somehow." He waved his hand in what was perhaps meant to be a reassuring gesture. "This one isn't serious, as I understand it; he'll recover. Poor thing will be miserable for a few days, though."

Crawly made a disgusted sound. "That's the most revolting thing I've ever heard. Whose bright idea was that?"

No particular expression on his face, the angel turned his head and nodded toward the other side of the encampment. Crawly reared up to see what he was looking at, and saw a pale man-shaped being seated cross-legged on the ground, watching the sick child intently.

The being caught sight of Crawly and inclined his head respectfully, a strange smile flitting across his face. Feeling suddenly chilled under the gaze of his weird, pale gray eyes, Crawly dropped back to the ground and slithered a bit closer to the angel.

"Who is he?" he asked in a small voice.

"His name is Pestilence."

"And the others like him? The red-haired woman and the thin man?"

"War and Famine. They are all kin, part of the new Plan." Aziraphale eyed him speculatively for a moment, then reached out tentatively to run a warm hand down the length of his spine. "Don't worry. They can't touch us, only the humans."

Somehow, Crawly was not reassured.

\---

When Abel's heart had ceased to beat and Cain had fled the scene of his brother's murder, Crawly, feeling sick, expected War to appear and gloat over her greatest accomplishment to date. But the figure that came walking out of nothingness to stand over the still and silent body bore no resemblance to any living thing Crawly had seen. It looked like a man would look if all his flesh had been stripped away, exposing a terrible rictus grin and great gaping holes where eyes should have been. On the spur of an uncontrollable impulse, Crawly turned tail and fled--only to run smack into Aziraphale.

That the angel had arrived without his sensing it was a testament to how badly the newcomer's presence unsettled him, but Crawly didn't care. Quick as a flash, he had wound his way up the angel's leg and torso, ignoring his startled exclamation, and curled defensively around Aziraphale's shoulders with only his head poking out from beneath the angel's long golden hair.

"Here now, there's no call for that," Aziraphale said somewhat impatiently as he fussily straightened his shining white robe, but he didn't try to dislodge Crawly.

"Who isssss he?" the serpent hissed. Something in his quasi-mortal corporation was instinctively and profoundly repelled by the walking heap of bones. "Or what?"

"He is Death," said Aziraphale softly. "Hello, Azrael. Your watch has begun, then."

IT BEGAN SOME TIME AGO, came the hollow, echoing response. I AM MERELY MAKING MY FIRST COLLECTION.

Aziraphale sighed. "Well I suppose you had better get on with it, then. Things are about to become...unpleasant. I'm afraid your work isn't going to be very popular." He shook his head sadly at the young man's body.

THAT IS AS IT MAY BE. CARRY ON, AZIRAPHALE, I'VE GOT THIS.

"Very well," said the angel, bowing slightly before he turned to go. Crawly curled closer to his associate, sensing the terrifying light of the Presence not far away--hanging wrathfully over the unfortunate Cain, no doubt. Aziraphale was apparently not required to be in attendance at that interview, for which he was grateful.

"How many more of these things are there?" he ventured when they had found a quiet spot well away from the unfolding drama to sit and talk.

"I don't know for certain. But I believe we've met the chief among them," Aziraphale said thoughtfully as he absently groomed the edge of one of his wings. "All they really are is ideas made manifest by the divine spark within the Men, of course. Well, Azrael is a bit different, I suppose, he was created as the inevitable consequence of the others. But they all came into being at more or less the same time."

 _The inevitable consequence..._ "And this is all because of...what the woman did? The Fruit and all that?"

Aziraphale looked at him sharply. "I suppose that's one way of putting it..."

Realizing he had just worn out his welcome, Crawly slid from the angel's shoulders and slithered quietly away, putting as much distance between him and that macabre little scene as possible. Though he had a sinking feeling that no matter how far he went, he'd never be able to outrun Death.

\---

Centuries past, and many things changed. In spite of the hardships they suffered, Mankind was fruitful and multiplied, sweeping across the planet until barely a square inch of earth was left unoccupied or unclaimed by someone, somewhere. The Deluge came and went (leaving in its wake a soggy and very cranky Crowley, by this time upgraded to a more suitable name and a much more comfortable but still chillable human form,) a Pharaoh learned a harsh lesson, and a carpenter's son made amends for the sin of his many-times ancestress. Great civilizations rose and fell, languages and cultures were born and died, and science and faith waxed and waned in an ever more complex and confusing struggle for the hearts and minds of men.

Crowley had watched dozen of greater and lesser personifications come into being and disappear again over the millennia, fed by the ever-expanding pool of human belief and imagination, everything from false gods to tribal totems to folk legends. Very few humans realized nowadays that the likes of Merlin and Paul Bunyan had, at one time, actually existed; Crowley had even met an impressively built, bespectacled gent with a penchant for disappearing into phone booths and storage rooms at inconvenient moments, though human belief in that time and place was too diluted with science and skepticism to give him a true corporeal form.

Even the angel had changed, he thought with a private smile; not that he was complaining, even if it had taken forever to train the ridiculous creature to sleep properly in a bed every night, and he remained, in spite of the demon's never-ending campaign to the contrary, stubbornly a morning person.

The Horsemen, though, as they had come to be called when prophecy came into fashion--as far as he could see, they hadn't changed a bit, except to become better at what they did. He saw them only rarely now in person (or personification,) but their influence was everywhere. Some of the humans had fooled themselves into thinking they'd made great strides against the scourges of their forefathers, but Crowley knew better. They'd even added one to their ranks--Pestilence might call himself retired now, but if he was no longer acting in a professional capacity, he was one hell of a prolific hobbyist.

And while there might occasionally be a minor setback in the plans of War or Famine, Pestilence or Pollution, there was never any shortage of work for Death.

Crowley wasn't sure what had drawn him, alone, to the pond at St. James Park on this particular date, though he was one of very few entities on Earth who remembered its significance. An aide to Archbishop James Usher had once correctly determined the date of Earth's creation, if not the exact time; but no human had ever managed to nail down the day and the hour of the Fall.

He wondered whether the Horsemen ever celebrated their collective "birthday", and then decided he really didn't want to know.

When he arrived at the edge of the duck pond, however, he found he was not alone after all. A tall man already stood there feeding the ducks, and the sight struck Crowley as eerily familiar, though he couldn't say why.

"They're a bit standoffish today," he observed by way of greeting as he opened his paper sack and began tossing bread into the water. The ducks quacked hungrily but seemed reluctant to approach, only a bold few darting in to grab a piece before retreating to a safe distance.

I GET THAT A LOT, said the tall figure philosophically, but he nonetheless continued optimistically throwing food at the unsociable birds.

"Odd little creatures," Crowley said after a moment, not so much making an observation about the ducks as thinking aloud.

THEY ARE, said his companion. NOT TERRIBLY DURABLE, UNFORTUNATELY. BUT ENDEARING, IN THEIR WAY.

Crowley tossed what was left of his bread a bit further out so the birds could get at it without coming too close, and crumpled up his empty bag, tossing it over his shoulder and watching as the absurd creatures quacked fussily at one another, preened, herded their ducklings and went through all the motions of daily duck life with only an occasional distrustful glance in their direction. "I wonder what they really think of us?"

I DOUBT THEY DO, MUCH. UNTIL WE INTRUDE TOO CLOSELY TO BE IGNORED. The other sounded wistful. AND THEN THEY ARE SIMPLY AFRAID.

Crowley shook his head. "It seems...unfair," he said softly, moved by an unfamiliar sense of melancholy. "We do so much to ruin their world, and what can they do? Quack about it? Or fly away until they get shot down by a hunter, or hit by an aero plane, or mired in an oil slick, or...whatever." He kicked a stone disconsolately into the pond, causing a few ripples that vanished quickly as the stone sank out of sight. "I mean, what's the point? Why have ducks, if the best they can hope for is to end up on the menu at the Ritz..." _Or to be divvied up in the end between two equally bastardly supernatural factions and never have a decent drink again._

The tall figure carefully deposited his paper sack in a nearby rubbish bin. I SUPPOSE A DUCK'S LIFE MUST OFFER REWARDS WHICH ONLY A DUCK CAN APPRECIATE, he offered.

"I suppose," Crowley said doubtfully.

The tall person surveyed the pond dispassionately. BESIDES, IF THEIR LIVES WERE PERFECT, WHAT REASON WOULD THEY HAVE TO GET EXCITED ABOUT FREE BREAD?

Crowley nodded, not altogether convinced, but he couldn't really fault the logic. So he stood beside the stranger in companionable silence and thought of nothing in particular, soaking up the sunshine with the kind of blissful appreciation that only a former reptile can muster, and watching the ducks be ducks.

Behind them, unnoticed for the moment, a slightly chubby man in tweed (who also had an excellent memory for dates) smiled knowingly to himself, stopped a fight between two small children with two identical vanilla ice cream cones, and miracled Crowley's forgotten paper sack into the bin. He settled down on an inviting patch of grass with one of his favorite books, enjoying a rare moment of perfect tranquility.

Taking the hint, certain other entities turned their attention elsewhere, keeping a respectful distance in honor of the day.


End file.
